


A6s9lutely, p9sitively w9rthless.

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Pre-Sburb/Sgrub, ReaLLY FUCKING TRIGGERING HOLY DICKS, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kankri Vantas has just about had enough of thinking that he's unable to die twice. Why not try? It isn't as though he'll be missed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A6s9lutely, p9sitively w9rthless.

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO ED GY

Fuck. He did it again, he’d relapsed. He didn’t mean to, it just...happened. Porrim had asked him if he was alright. It was just a simple message.

 

GA: Kanny, are yo+u alright?

GA: Yo+u haven’t said a single wo+rd to+ anyo+ne fo+r nearly sweeps o+n end.

GA: …

GA: Kanny?

GA: Kankri?

GA: ...o+h fuck.

 

And then she’d gone offline, not so much as another chirp uttered by his dormant husktop as he’d sat there, sobbing and mumbling little things to himself, things he’d been told back before he’d died, back before he’d been freed from the prison of Beforan culling.

 _Nobody thinks of you as a troll._ Another harsh slash to his arm. His sleeve falls down a bit. He jerks it back up, hissing in pain as it roughly brushes over the less freshly marred skin higher up on his limb.

 _You’re just your blood colour. You aren’t anything new, anything different._ Another one, a harsh, panicked sob welling up out of his raw throat, raw from crying, raw from yelling shouts and insults and screams at himself.

 _You must let us take care of you, you’re incapable of doing anything on your own._ His vision’s starting to grow dark, his eyesight’s focus swimming in and out of sharp clarity to a blurred mob of colours, although maybe it’s just the way his tears refuse to stop dripping down his already pink-slicked cheeks. He’d stopped trying to wipe them away. His arms have better things to be preoccupied with.

 _ **Fucking worthless.**_ At that, he truly does scream, head tilting back as he drags the blade up the length of his entire arm, ripping multiple yarn stitches as he does so.

Despite all of the negativity flowing throughout him and coursing out of him with the beat of his dead heart, he’s filled with a sort of heavy contentedness. He wonders if he can die again. He’s mildly hopeful for it to be possible, to bring on one’s own erasure of existence by one’s own hands.

“...heh. Porrim will be so very upset, w-with how I’ve damaged her sweater…”

As if summoned, the door to his hive explodes in a shower of sharp wooden splinters and chunks of cracked, damaged wood and metal. Porrim stands in the doorway, hair a mess and her dress torn and out of place from having fun so fast. Both heels are broken, and she kicks them off as she runs up to Kankri’s spot on the floor, where he lays crumpled.

His breathing’s slowed. A languid smile curls across his pale, unnaturally pale lips as he looks up at her. He gestures to his sleeve, not seeming to notice the blood streaming from the irreparable wounds made to the ashen gray flesh below the two halves of the now-destroyed sweater sleeve.

He coughs.

“I-I’m sorry, I, I-I didn’t mean to, t-to hurt your sweater.”

His voice sounds horrible; cracked, hoarse, and a repetitive sort of clicking behind every syllable.

“L-Love you,” he says with a slight widening of his cracked, dry lips, then all life leaves those ghostly white irises and his eyelids slide shut, never to open again.


End file.
